


Belladonna

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Lactation, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belladonna-- beautiful woman. Deadly poison.</p>
<p>The Inquisitor only wanted Cullen for the child he could give her. She finds her pleasures with the Iron Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belladonna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [placentalmammal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/gifts).



Belladonna-- beautiful woman. Deadly poison.

One and the same, using drops to dilate her pupils to doe-eyed innocence. Her only pretense; she keeps the soil on her elbows, the warm smell of earth and sweat. Forever rooted in what nourishes her, first nursery of memory. They called her a gardener long before they called her a mage, and she still holds more confidence in her skills as apothecary than spirit-healer.

She would approach Cullen as she would a desired cultivar, if she had the choice. But his free consent is necessary for her plan, and the man craves affection. So she plies him with wine, with meaningless pleasantries. Salts her words with truths-- her admiration of his eyes, his hair. The way his lips fascinate her, supple and pliant. The twist of his scar when he speaks, the fine catch of light on his stubble when he tilts his head in full sun. Lets his own admiration take seed, woos him with gentle glances and lingering touch.

(She never speaks of love. She may be unkind, but her words are honest as a blade. Knife-edged and sharp-tipped as a trowel.)

When she judges him ripe, she initiates. Leads him to her chamber, lets the sun spill full through the window and light the canvas of his form. Marks him in a wisteria-climb of bites and bruises, pinches his flesh for the sheer delight of his yelp, the tendons in his throat jumping stark.

But she wants no lingering tokens besides her child.

But for all the care she took to stay unmarked, unblemished, unbruised by any of Cullen’s fumbling kisses or clumsy hands, for all the fact that she cleansed herself and used various scents to cover the residual Templar stink of steel and lyrium-sickness, for all the ways she snubbed, refuted, and otherwise denied Cullen’s fancies of anything more--

He is guest in her, welcomed intruder for the sake of the child she seeks, but less of her than the honey dripped in her tea or an apple she bites, crisp white flesh beneath her teeth. Man that he is, templar that he is, she will not let him set root in her soil. This tangle of twisted veins, worn capillaries and root-systems, blood and breath all set to nourish this tiny seed-- the child, _her_ child, _her_ daughter belongs no more to _her_ than she belongs to her own mother. Refuse to mistake lineage for certainty, blood for ownership, and she will give her daughter unto herself. Will watch her little seedling sprout tall and strong and refuse to wash her in her mother’s sins.

(This is where she and Morrigan find common ground. They will be more than the mothers that mothered them.)

* * *

 

Three times she invites him into her.

The first is mid-day, gilded in sunlight and lazy indulgence. Rakes furrows across his chest, stark and plum-purple against the milky flesh. Sits astride his lap, a slow roll of her hips and instructing his movements. Presses her finger to his lips, not wanting him to destroy this moment with his unripe speech.

The second is early evening, air soft with promise. Like a night-blooming flower cupping its scent, she holds herself apart. Leads, teasing, pulling, always making him take that extra step, that extra caress to close the distance between them. Lies back on her pillows, commands him to drink deep from her, lick and nuzzle until she swells and parts for him. Until he’s wet-lipped and whimpering, his hardness chafing within his trousers and she permits him entry.

The third is morning, when she wakes warm and concupiscent. Thighs flushed, errant dreams shattering to confused fragments. Like torn petals, leaving only memory of scent and softness. She touches herself, feels herself slick, pulling like egg-white and webbing between her fingers. She slips on a long robe, walks down the still-chill halls and past windows that remain unwashed with dawn. Admits herself into Cullen’s room with a brisk knock, asks him if he desires, and takes him in hand at his frantic nod.

She pushes him against the bed, climbs over him and pins him to the mattress. Pants against his skin, fills her nostrils with his bitter-metal and paints him over in scents of her own choosing. Her tongue, her slick. Her own fluids plastered against his skin, speaking more of need than desire. He will only mark her as much as she lets him (as little as she lets him) and she will grant him no illusions as to owning her.

(She always flourished best in her own garden, rather than re-potted in that miserable patch of earth the Circle called its own.)

If she allows Cullen his fancies, he will destroy her. Like over-tilled soil choking the very life it tries to nourish.

* * *

 

Belladonna-- beautiful woman. Deadly poison.

One and the same, for all that she lets the Iron Bull suck deep, sits on a heap of mounded cushions to better offer her breasts. Full-figured, full-swollen in pregnancy, nipples large and purpled. The veins running blue and frail beneath the creamy flesh, like flower petals spiraling from the areola.

The child’s not his, of course. But she begrudges him none of the comfort or pleasure he finds in lapping at her nipple, a touch of that pointed, too-rough tongue and hot breath. Strange even in the familiar, decidedly non-human. Sharp smell, hint of musk-- some sort of oil he rubs in the base of his horns, leaves a lingering spicy scent when she rubs her thumbs over the scalp. Like cedar, or dark earth in fresh sun.

She tilts back, a pillow to support her back as the Bull nuzzles, pulls soft with his lips and tugs her nipple into his mouth. Pinches with his lips over his teeth, gentle suction and one hand cupped around her breast. Squeezes, caressing-- deft fingertips grazing her skin, shallow dimples beneath his pads.

When the milk trickles, he laps. Gentle as he can, even with that rough tongue. Catches the milk with his lips, tongue cupped and rolling it back. His eye shut, a contented hum rumbling through his chest and sending an echoing vibration through her thighs.

“Now, now. Leave some for the baby,” she chuckles. Traces her thumb over his horn, idle sigils before she catches herself and stills her hands. Not enough power in her to set those glyphs aflare, but a poor habit for even a mage of her meager abilities.

The Bull may not have noticed-- but no, the Bull notices everything. Knew she had slept with Cullen, for all that she sent the Commander back to his chambers after she confirmed her missed cycle.

Which may have been how the Bull knew of the affair.

She wears her rose scent now. Thick, lush, powdery. Rose oil and absolute, vetivert and tonka, a hint of bergamot-- green and choking in its intensity. A cloying, poisonous sweetness when first applied, before the top notes dissipate and the sweeping rose scent envelops everything else.

Soft. Feminine.

Decidedly not maternal.

She does not like talk during sex, and the Bull is masterful with silence. Asks permission with kisses and uses his voice only to respond, to let her know if his knee is hindering him or if they need to adjust the angle. Otherwise, lets his body-sighs and moans speak for him.

Like now-- soft, as he takes heed and pulls back from her breast. Lips still damp with milk, a pale sweetness against his grey skin. Presses his lips against the dark areola of the other breast, a tiny dot of pressure and she chuckles. Slants a nod. “Very well. For symmetry.”

She closes her eyes, savors that same over-warm mouth on her breast. Prickle of teeth-- she shivers, scratches a warning at the base of his horn. He kisses an apology and wraps his mouth over her nipple. One hand drifts down her belly, trails long, blunt claws over the skin. Stretch marks rippling silver against the pale flesh, marked contrast to both his grey skin and her own sun-brown hand. New life in there, planted deep. Little apple-seed swelling with blood, already apple of her eye-- for all that she lay with a templar, she won’t hold her daughter’s parentage against her. Not when her daughter is such a desired thing.

Finally sated with what little milk he laps, he looks up at her again with that eye. Strange, beautiful-- sea-glass green, like fresh buds and the smell of a garden after rain. Pupil dilated, like lust and atropine toxicity.

She allows a smile to curve her lips, parts her thighs meaningfully and he settles between her legs. Braces his elbows on the blankets, lifts under her knees so she can hook her legs over his horns. Hard, but worn, organic-- like smooth-polished wood, none of stone’s cold chill. Pleasing to the touch, firm behind the soft bend of her knee. His head disappears below the swell of her belly. Gathers her moisture like honey, softens his tongue to the cleft of her body. Probing, firm-- drinks her like nectar. Lush waves of sensation, rippling through her, crashing like tides. Pulls her like the sun pulls the seedling, unfurling slow and sweet and inevitable. And when she comes, she screams without name.

Her climax is her own. No other may lay claim to it.

After-- she wallows in her pillowed bed, the wealth of cushions plush beneath her back and feet. Support and comfort in equal measure, the Bull rolling beside her. Bodies at angles, her foot grazing his thigh by accident rather than intent. He tugs the platter on her bedside table, plucks an apple slice from its companions spread petal-like on the tray. Presses it to her lips.

She takes a delicate bite, lips firm before snapping her teeth. Lets the green-silk tartness spill into her mouth. Crunches slowly, swallows. Opens her mouth. Permits the Bull to feed her another, then another. Shakes her head at the fourth piece.

He chuckles, popping it into his mouth instead. A spray of sweetness, an orchard-fresh kiss on her shoulder. Opens his mouth lips poised to shape words-- closes again. But she can read him like a new leaf. Even if he chose not to speak, he lets the unsaid drop between them, round and heavy-vowelled.

“The sex was good. Thank you for your services,” she says, high-nosed and chuckling. Every inch the petty noble her over-lauded bloodline pretends.

“Thanks, Boss. Sure know how to make a fellow feel appreciated.” Winks broad and gentle, an exaggerated courtesy that removes all sting.

“I keep inviting you to return, no? That should be ample proof of my appreciation,” she says. Coats her words oleander-glossy, presses her fingers to the hollow behind his ear. Sweat-damp and sharp, like a summer day well-spent.

He hovers a vast hand over her belly, and she grants permission with a nod. He can cover the entire swell with that massive hand, grey skin against pale. Like sand-streaked soil, a measure of her changing waters.

(She has not allowed Cullen to touch her since she’s started showing, broke harsh words about his ears. This child is _hers_ and he has no ownership over her belly, any more than the Bull does.)

She cannot be Inquisitor forever, but she will leave the Inquisition with more than she joined.


End file.
